


in this life

by alivingfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AUs everywhere, Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Bartender Louis, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Cis Female Harry Styles, F/F, FATE IS REAL AND TRUE AND WANTS HARRY STYLES AND LOUIS TOMLINSON TO KISS, Female Louis Tomlinson, Genderswap, M/M, POV Second Person, Painter Harry, Painter Louis, Road Trips, Surfer Harry, The X Factor Era, Writer Harry, at the end there at least not the majority, biker harry, fate!, i mean kinda let's be real i'm just trying to fill this space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: In this life, Harry Styles found Louis Tomlinson early, and never let him go.In other lives, it goes a little differently, but it always ends the way fate intended.





	in this life

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in a fit of "i haven't published anything in six goddam months" and also wanting to work on my second person POV. this is barely edited and i finished writing it at 3:00 a.m. so like, a couple notes:  
> 1\. i still know nothing about hockey. louis in the hockey section is blatantly a combination of bitty and jack from omg check please. i had to google icing. please don't ask why i chose to make louis an athlete in the one sport where i know <1% of the information.  
> 2\. girl direction! but again, don't expect too much detail about surfing. that's the one with the board and you hook it to your ankle, right?  
> 3\. please give this story a chance even if you're unsure about second person POV. i worked hard on it and this is a tester for the vegas fic i'm working on, which is going to be much longer and the POV is much more in-depth. 
> 
> whew. thanks for checking in, and i hope you enjoy!

In this life, you’re a painter. 

Color speaks to you in a way people never could, shades more nuanced than emotions. You blend blue and green and know exactly what the result will be; you blend yourself in social situations and the same cannot be said. You hole up, you burrow. You hermit, your sister says, and she’s teasing but teasing based on truth. You’re okay with the world inside your makeshift studio, because in there you can control everything from the canvas to the ceilings. 

You do like some things. 

You like the sunflowers in the garden of the house you pass to get to the bakery. You like the way the afternoon light touches the scones in the display case. You like the tiny bakery tables that you couldn’t possibly be expected to share with another person. 

You like the smile of the boy at another too-tiny-for-teatime-companions table. 

He must be new; you’ve never seen him here before. This is a small village, you’d know if someone like this existed here before this moment. Somehow, you’d have known. 

“D’you mind?” he asks, pointing to the chair across from you at the too-tiny bakery table. 

Yes, you want to say. Yes, I mind. Yes, go away, I enjoyed the view of you from over there but now you’re far too close and I’m far too clumsy with the words in my mouth and— 

“No,” you say. “Please, take a seat.” 

There’s no reason for him to have moved to your table. The bakery isn’t even halfway full, no one needed his seat. He’s sipping tea and smiling at you like he knows a secret and thinks it’s something you’ll enjoy. 

“Louis,” he says. You assume that’s his name. 

“Harry,” you answer. 

“Harry,” he repeats. “Your hands are blue, Harry.” 

You look down: they are. Well, sort of. Acrylic paint stripes your palms, dusts your knuckles like you’d done it on purpose, trying to play the part of the painter. You didn’t do it on purpose, but you must admit you like the look. There’s blue on your hands in paintbrush-edged stripes: you’d painted the ocean this morning, and it was the same color as this stranger’s eyes. 

You look at his hands, just on instinct: they’re green. Familiar paintbrush strokes, familiar colored swaths across his knuckles. Green like jade under a jeweler’s lamp, bright and light, like a high note in a sweet song. He sees you looking and holds up both hands, palms toward you, fingers wiggling. 

“Seems we might have something in common,” he says.  

You fall in love easier than you should’ve, Louis’ smile less safe than your routines but a thousand times more intriguing. He coaxes you into the world and you coax him into your studio in return, a balancing act of public and private. The first time your sister walks in and sees someone else there inside your sacred space, she shoots you a conspiratorial wink and even waits until Louis leaves before she pounces, demanding details. 

You fall in love in the span of a summer, and you paint blue, blue, blue until your tube runs dry and your hands are permanently cerulean. You haul your canvases and brushes and palette and paints all over creation that summer, because sometimes Louis wants to paint a beach scene and a photo just won’t do, and sometimes he wants to paint the exact color of the cappuccino he got at that specific cafe in London, and it’s only three months into this whirlwind of painting all across Britain that you realize he’s slyly been dating you and you didn’t even notice.

You fall in love and realize that you’re now the type of person those too-tiny bakery tables are meant for, your knees brushing Louis’ underneath as you linger over a scone.  

You fall in love over a shared canvas, something so incredibly intimate that the butterflies move from your stomach to your hands, making your usually sure strokes shaky. It’s the first of many, Louis promises, stepping back and staring at what the two of you have made together in awe. “This,” he says, “this is important.” And you know what he’s saying is you, Harry Styles,  _ you  _ are important. 

In a gallery, twenty years later, that first collaboration hangs in a place of pride, and when someone offers a ridiculous sum to take it home, you look over at your husband, green paint smudged on the inside of his wrist and barely hidden by his suit jacket cuff, and you smile. 

“No,” you say. “No, I think we’d better keep this for ourselves.”  

 

* * *

 

In this life, you’re a drifter. 

You were born with a suitcase in your hand, as your mother says. You have a ship tattooed on your bicep because you know the idea of home is transient, connected to people instead of places. You spent your childhood tracking mud in from your adventures through the patch of woods behind your house, your bicycle basket equipped with all your exploring necessities: flashlight, compass, beef jerky. You’d tie a bandana around your forehead to keep the summer sweat out of your eyes, and you wouldn’t return until the fireflies lit the way home. 

When your friends leave home for college at eighteen, you follow them out — but not for school. You’ve always learned more from the asphalt of the open road than from textbooks. You take your hard-earned money from your high school job flipping burgers and throw it all at a Triumph Bonneville, sold to you by a neighbor who bought it new in a fit of midlife crisis. It’s shiny and warm under your thighs and you shiver as it rumbles to life the first time.

Your saddlebags are mostly empty when you leave your little hometown, but they fill up soon enough. You collect trinkets from Route 66 sideshows and you buy a couple of notebooks to keep track of what you see and do. You do odd jobs when you find them — you mow an old lady’s yard in Kansas City, you hand out flyers for a business in Seattle, you paint a few houses in Tampa. Cities are good for quick cash, but you like the small towns better: little patches of history and strangeness in the middle of nowhere. 

You drive the Million Dollar Highway through the Rockies and stop off in Telluride, a boutique town framed by snowcaps and vistas. You can’t afford a hotel room here — tourist traps like this don’t tend to have a Super 8 for the poorer folks — but you do find a dive bar a few blocks off Main Street, a local haunt where regulars go to watch a game or shoot the shit without having to deal with out-of-towners. You slip onto a stool at the bar and are only jostled a little by an exuberant group of men in Broncos jerseys. 

“What can I get you?” a bartender asks, and you look away from the little television over the bar — the Broncos just scored, hence the exuberation — and, suddenly, lose your breath. 

“What do you recommend?” you ask. The bartender smiles, a touch of a dimple kissed into his cheek. His small, capable hands wipe a rag over a clean pint glass, and he swipes it one last time before turning and pouring you a drink. 

“This is a local brew,” he says, sliding the full glass to you. It’s foaming beautifully, deep brown and bubbling like a geyser. 

“What’s it called?” you ask, taking a sip. It sits heavy on your tongue, sweet on the way down. 

“Face Down,” he tells you, and you can’t help it: 

“Only if you ask nicely,” and his grin grows wider. 

“I’m off at ten,” he offers. 

“I’ll be here,” you promise. 

You flirt until he’s off his shift, and then you flirt as you walk to another bar (“Can’t drink where I work, you know the drill”), and then you flirt until you fall into his bed, a little twin mattress in an apartment barely bigger than the matchbox he procures to light two cigarettes afterward. 

“So, are you just passing through?” Louis asks, propped up against the wall. His bare chest shines with sweat in the light from the moon outside, windows thrown open wide to catch a breeze and cool the room. The cherry glow of his cigarette flares as he inhales. You exhale your own stream of smoke, clouding the air. 

“Maybe,” you say. You’ve got your head in his lap, and you turn to quirk a smile up at him. “Do I have a reason to stay?” 

He taps out his cig in an ashtray nearby and leans down, stealing your smile with a kiss. Outside, the fireflies gather to let you know: you’ve found your way home.  
  


* * *

 

 

In this life, you’re a writer. 

Or so your degree says, hanging tauntingly on your wall.  _ You’re trained for this!  _ it laughs at you.  _ You paid good money to sit in front of that blank page all day doing nothing!  _

Words come to you in the middle of the night when your insomnia taps at your temple and the city noise drones, in the middle of a pub crawl with your mates who don’t seem to have a tenth of the worries you do, in the middle of the morning when you’re staggering out of bed, in the middle of a lunch with your sister where she, unsubtly, tells you that she’s got all types of friends she could be setting you up with. Words bombard you like raindrops at the most inconvenient times, and yet they flood away when you have a pen, when you finally dig out your phone and open a new note to try and get it all out. 

You read voraciously about the greats, searching for inspiration. Cormac McCarthy struck up conversations with strangers; you try that. You make friends with people at bars, in the queue at Starbucks, online — you have a dozen conversations going at once, but none of them spark anything new. Junot Diaz had a journal; you try that, too, but when your writer’s block extends to that as well, you throw your journal out the window in frustration. 

When you read that Michael Chabon suggested throwing out what you’ve done so far and starting over, you snort and, just to be contrary, save a blank word document and then immediately delete it. 

You want to write a story about love and loss, about life and language and a million little things. There’s a story in your stomach and your lungs and etched on the inside of your ribcage but you don’t know how to get it out. 

In a fit of pique, you go home for a weekend. Your mum always has an open invitation for you to crash with her, to get your head on straight and be coddled just a little until you’re ready to try again. So that’s what you do, packing two pairs of black jeans and a few worn t-shirts and your well-used laptop and grabbing a train north. 

You’re not even there a full minute, you realize later. You hop off the train, scuffed boots barely touching Holmes Chapel pavement, when you bump into someone. 

“Whoa, there, steady on,” someone says, grabbing you by the arms to keep you upright. You sway, clutching back, until — 

“Louis?” 

He’s aged like a fine goddamn wine, you think, somehow breathless even in the privacy of your own head. You haven’t seen him since — god, since sixth form, since your halcyon schoolboy days. Louis was the first one to tell you that you should be a writer, the two of you huddled under the blankets at one of a hundred different sleepovers, flashlight in hand as he read your shaky twelve-year-old writing. 

“This is great, Hazza,” he’d praised, and you’d felt like spreading imaginary wings and pulling an Icarus. It has only been the recent years that have informed you that Louis wasn’t just your first best friend, but your first childhood crush, too, that wanting his approval was once as natural to you as breathing. 

“Harry Styles,” he says, eyes bright. “What brings you back to your humble roots?” 

“Needing inspiration,” you tell him, unable as always to keep him away from the truth. 

“Well,” he tilts his head, looking thoughtful, “maybe I can help with that.” 

The library where the two of you pretended to study and instead you wrote short stories starring Louis as a pirate or a cowboy or a spaceman that he’d act out for you as his one-person audience. The tree in the park you climbed because he told you you couldn’t do it, and when you fell and broke your arm he cried more than you did. The grocery shop where he used to work when he was seventeen, and where you’d show up to distract him when things were slow. 

You don’t know how any of this is going to unlock the story in your stomach, but it’s the first time in years you aren’t worried about it. Your best friend — your first best friend, your first love, your first real critic and biggest fan — has you by the hand and is taking you on a reminiscent tour of your shared childhood: you can give up an afternoon of staring at your laptop screen in frustration for this. You’d give up a dozen afternoons for this. 

“Remember this place?” Louis asks. It’s dusk now, the whole day spent together. Louis’ hand is warm in yours, and you wonder now if it should’ve been weird, the way your fingers laced together like they were sewn that way. 

For the first time today, you aren’t drowning in a pool of sepia memories. You don’t recognize this place, a squat little cottage on the edge of the village. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this quaint little garden, or the apple tree in the front yard. A cat sits lazily in a window, tail flicking idly as she watches the two of you with half-closed eyes. 

You don’t want to tell him that you don’t remember this cottage, not when he brought you all the way here, expecting you to remember, expecting you to know what he’s thinking. Instead, you bite your lip and turn to him, thinking he might elaborate with a story that might jog your memory. 

“S’pose you wouldn’t, actually,” Louis muses, and your distress eases a little. He stares at the house, the baby blue paint and the warm glow of a lamp inside one of the windows. “Since I never did ask you what I meant to ask.” 

“What?” 

Louis turns to you, a rueful grin pulling at his mouth. “Remember when we were fifteen, and you said that all you wanted in life was a little country house where you could write and maybe grow a few flowers?” He gestures to the house, as though you haven’t been able to see it this whole time. “Guess I never really did grow out of wanting all your dreams to come true.” 

It clicks, then. “Louis, I—”  _ don’t know what to say, don’t know how to say it, don’t know how to thank you for things I didn’t even know you’d done  _ — “I can’t believe this.” 

“In a good way, I hope,” he says, still rueful, still sheepish, like he expects you to walk away. He  _ bought your dream house.  _

It’s a common problem in your life, not being able to expel the words trapped inside you. This time, however, you’ve got another way to express yourself: you spin Louis by the shoulders and kiss him until all the air in the world has gone, and you’re dizzy and grinning. 

“Take that as a yes,” Louis says dazedly. 

“Ask me,” you say. At Louis’ still-stunned look, you continue: “Ask what you wanted to ask, what you never asked.” 

Louis takes your hand in his, holds it to his chest. His heart pounds a tattoo onto the back of your hand, potent despite its invisibility. “Harry Styles,” he speaks slowly, like a long-memorized script he’s finally getting to act out, “don’t go to London to be an author. Stay here, with me, and write your novel here.” 

“Yes,” you say, crowding into him, kissing him again, again, “yes, god, of course, of course.” 

The words aren’t stuck, not anymore. The words pour out into one book, two. Your editor suggests you move to London, that way you can participate in the big city scene, be photographed with other up-and-comers. 

London has a lot of things, but it doesn’t have a little baby blue cottage, nor the boy who bought it for you. 

The cat still sits in the windowsill, and in the spring you plant begonias. 

 

* * *

 

In this life, you’re a sports newscaster. 

You’re paid to have opinions — that’s the part you like. You’ve watched football since you were a tiny lad, the Gary Pallister home shirt your father gave you falling to your knees until you hit your first growth spurt at age eight. 

It’s not as though you’re a presenter, or anything. You’re not even a commentator. You’re a beat reporter, an opinion-guy who’s allowed to stray a little from the unbiased caution that the big names have to stick to. You’re known for your color commentary on social issues in sport and personality pieces, and you’re friendly with quite a few athletes you’ve interviewed. You’re also one of the first fully out Sky Sports reporters, and you’re known for that, too. 

Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes, it’s a little harder. 

You want to be good at your job, so you study up. You pick up the intricacies of boxing, cricket, golf, tennis. You subscribe to ESPN and start learning those major sports too — basketball, baseball, even the psuedo-rugby with the tight pants that Americans call football. 

Your favorite, though, is hockey. 

You don’t have a team, don’t know many of the mascots or even the cities where the teams play. You assume that “icing” means spraying someone with ice on purpose, only to find out that’s not the case at all. You took French in school but can’t understand a word that comes out of most of the players’ mouths, jumbled and exertion-slurred, athletes who are nimble on the ice but clumsy off of it. 

Except one. 

Tomlinson, a short, quick winger for an up-and-coming team in a small New England city you’ve never heard of. You know less than most peewee hockey players and yet even you can see how soft his touch is, how skilled he is at handling the puck, his intelligence on the ice. 

And then he does post-game interviews, and those— well. Those are inspiring. 

Bright-eyed and sharp-tongued, Tomlinson toes the line of brash and entertaining, waving off compliments and directing all praise to his teammates, his goalie, his coaches and the staff. He’s hard on himself when he makes mistakes but he glows when talking about his team, the hard work they put in to be successful. When a reporter approaches him about his exuberance during a post-goal celebration, Tomlinson’s eyes narrow. 

“Price blocked fourteen shots on goal tonight and mine was the only one that went in,” he says, cool and precise. “Should I not be proud of that?” 

You can’t help it. You’re a Sky Sports beat reporter, you don’t have anything to do with the NHL or, really, any American sports at all. You’re not even sure if your contract allows you to do this. 

You tweet anyway. 

_ @Harry_Styles — 1 minute ago _ _  
_ _ @Louis_Tomlinson deserves more than just being proud of that goal. If he wants suggestions on some other ways to celebrate, I’ve got ideas.  _

You don’t expect a reply. You probably should’ve. 

_ @Louis_Tomlinson — 3 minutes ago _ _  
_ _ Careful, @Harry_Styles I might take you up on that  _

It’s not as though you have a massive fanbase, or anything, especially not compared to Tomlinson, but your Twitter followers definitely notice the exchange. You expect the call you get from your boss to be a reprimand, and are surprised instead to see that they want you to discuss Tomlinson’s quote on the show, maybe write an in-depth article. You wear your best TV suit and spend three long minutes passionately defending an athlete’s right to pride in their accomplishments, and you will your blush away when your tweet is obliquely referenced. 

“All I’m saying,” you laugh, praying that you’re not bright red, “is that if the guy wants help celebrating, I’m in.” 

“I bet you are,” Julian Waters says, grinning a white-toothed smile as he sends the show to commercial break. Once the cameraman gives the all clear signal, he turns to you with a raised eyebrow. “Careful, there,” he says mildly. “Sport fans aren’t exactly known for being the most tolerant, Americans especially.” 

“I’ve handled worse,” you assure him — though, maybe that’s not true. In all honesty, you turned your notifications off an hour after Tomlinson’s reply. 

Curious about the state of things (and feeling thick-skinned today), you wade back into social media after the few days you’ve been away. Your mentions are a mess of heart-eyed teenage Tomlinson fans who either vehemently love you or hate you, and middle-aged men wearing Falcon jerseys in their profile pictures who want you to know how much of an abomination you are. You dismiss it all, retweeting the Sky Sports account link to the video of the segment you just recorded. A short minute later, your heart double-thuds at a particular notification. 

_ Louis_Tomlinson retweeted your retweet _

And then another. 

_ Message from Louis_Tomlinson _

Your hands shake as you navigate to the message, expecting simultaneously the worst and the best possible options. 

_ Hey, thanks for the support. I know you’re getting a lot of flack, hope my reply earlier didn’t cause any problems _

You tap out an answer:  _ Even if it did, it was worth it.  _

Tomlinson’s return is quick, as though he, like you, is holding his phone, waiting for your messages.  _ I’d like to thank you in person. Going to be in Rhode Island anytime soon?  _

You grin delightedly, a little breathless, and dial up your boss. “Hey,” you say when he answers, “how would you feel about me writing that in-depth report on the road?” 

Providence is beautiful in March, chilly and frost-coated. At the airport, you spot a familiar, compact frame in the waiting area, hidden beneath a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, holding a sign that says  _ Harry_Styles.  _

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” you say, and Tomlinson’s smile nearly twinkles. 

“Sure I did,” he says. “Can’t neglect my biggest fan.” 

There’s a blurry photograph of you at the next Falcons game, up in the box with the families of the other players. It’s nearly too grainy to make out, but there is one decently clear picture of your back, Tomlinson’s name bold across your shoulders. 

When your objectivity is questioned you just smile, knowing that, at least when it came to Tomlinson, your objectivity never stood a chance. 

 

* * *

  
In this life, you’re a surf instructor. 

It’s not easy, your job. Sure, you live in a tropical paradise, have a saltwater miracle of a view right out your back door, spend your days oceanside or out catching waves with your friends. But for every eager customer there’s a sleazy one, some guy who assumes that “surf instructor” is actually code for “paid beach girlfriend,” who is only there to stare at your chest as you explain the difference in board lengths. 

For the most part, you handle your own. Only a few guys push it far enough that you’re uncomfortable rather than just annoyed, and you’ve been taking self-defense lessons for years. You keep pepper spray under the counter and, according to the contract the customers sign, you are authorized to use it if you feel threatened. 

Most of the time, you love your job. Saltwater is where you’re meant to be, and your tiny salary comes with enough perks to keep you content forever. You have a hut on the resort beach where you stock boards and wetsuits, and that’s where she first finds you. 

“Can you teach beginners?” she asks, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. 

You grin. “I can teach anyone.” 

She challenges your confidence, though. The first day, your stomach feels bruised from repeating the motion of pushing up off the board and hopping to your feet, over and over and over again. You have sand in your bikini bottoms and you forgot a hair tie, so the ocean breeze whips the salted ends of your hair into your eyes. 

Somehow, Louis looks even worse for the wear. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promises, and while you want to believe her, you’re not so sure she’s right. Most people don’t want to put this much effort in during their vacation — she never even conquered the motion of paddling correctly. Usually, this means you won’t see her again. 

She seems to live to challenge your beliefs, though. 

Bright and early, she does arrive, hair pushed back with an elastic headband and no-nonsense purse of lips firmly in place. An hour in, she’s mastered the push up. Two hours in, you’re on a board in the shallows, demonstrating how to paddle out. 

You have one rule. Well, actually, you have two: the first is pepper spray first, ask questions later. The second, which is more applicable here, is that you don’t get attached to guests. 

The resort and the surf lessons are your whole life, but that’s not true for anyone else. Guests are only in your life for a few days, maybe a week at most. In the beginning, you’d promise to keep in touch with those you clicked with: now, a few years in, you know better. You’ve seen too many early friendships wither and die. 

So, when Louis asks if you’re doing anything after her lesson one day, you regretfully lie and say you have plans. 

You don’t want to. You want to take her to your favorite local spot, wear your tiniest sundress and dance close on the warm sand. You want to trade sangria sweet kisses on a moon-bright beach, and wake up tangled in salty sheets. 

But she’s leaving eventually, and you can’t fall for someone who has to leave. 

Even if it’s already started. 

But… she keeps coming back. Day after day, for a week, then two. You wonder if she’s an extended stay guest — you’re not up on your pop culture, maybe she’s famous. She doesn’t say anything that hints at an end date, and at this point, maybe you don’t want to know. 

You don’t go up to the main resort often — no need to, when your customers come to you. But one day, there’s an issue with your check, and you have to sort it out. You throw an extra large tank top over your bikini and call that good enough, not even bothering with shoes. After a short walk up to the resort hotel, you step inside the bright, clean lobby — and freeze. 

“So, you  _ can  _ leave the beach,” Louis teases. You’re used to seeing her in her athletic one-piece swimsuit and salt-wild hair; behind the counter at the hotel registration desk, she’s in a simple, pure white shift dress and her pixie cut is tamed, smooth and shiny. 

“You’re not a guest,” you say, words feeling dumb even as they leave your mouth. 

One side of her mouth quirks up. “Astute of you.” 

“You live here.” 

“Just as of recently, but yeah, that’s true.” She raises an eyebrow. 

“Let me take you out,” you say.

There’s a small, awkward cough. You look over to see a small family, all wearing variations of palm frond and flamingo patterned shirts, the dad waving awkwardly. “Is, uh, is this where we check in?” 

“Yes, it is,” Louis says, transitioning easily to a professional smile. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” the dad says, pink-cheeked. 

“That’s no problem,” Louis says, waving you on, and grinning at your impatient look. “She can wait.” 

That evening, she shows up at the hut, grin still in place. She teases you all throughout dinner for assuming she was some sort of tourist, playfully mocking the way your mouth dropped open when you say her behind the desk, but you find a way to stop her jokes pretty easily, her lips soft and yielding against yours. 

The next morning, you shake her awake at dawn and take her for a sunrise surf. She rides a full ten seconds before crashing, and she pulls you into the water to celebrate her progress. 

Your kisses taste like ocean, and you send her off to work with an unfocused, blissful smile, a bruise the shape of your mouth hidden under her perfect white dress.  
  


* * *

 

 

In this life, you’re standing on the X Factor stage, and you’re shaking. 

Four other boys — four boys you barely think you could recognize, let alone name — are there with you. Tears have dried tacky on your face, your lip still trembling. Sixteen, and flayed open for the nation to see — that’s showbiz, you guess. 

Nicole Sherzinger is holding a microphone at the judge’s table, surveying you. “We have decided,” she says slowly, theatrically, “to put you together as a group.” 

Your mind blanks. Your heart crashes in your chest. 

A boy you barely know jumps into your arms in joy. 

Out in the lobby, out of the view of the cameras, he smiles shakily at you, wild-eyed. “I’m Louis,” he says. 

“I’m Harry,” you answer. 

In this life, you find him early, and you don’t ever let him go. 

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog this fic on tumblr here.](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/post/174022588881)
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


End file.
